The old pirate, on finding himself a prisoner, let his head sink on his chest, and giving a sad glance at the girl he had been unable to save, he gave vent to a deep sigh, and a burning tear silently coursed down his furrowed cheeks. At the same moment Ellen entered the village, in the middle of her escort: on seeing her, Valentine started.
"Oh!" he muttered; "Where is Doña Clara?"
"My daughter, my daughter!" the hacendero exclaimed, suddenly appearing before the hunter, with his clothes disordered and his brow pale with fear. The unhappy father, since he had entered the village, had only attended to one thing—seeking his daughter.
Followed step by step by the general, he entered the thickest of the fight, asking after his daughter of all those he met, thrusting aside the weapons that menaced him, and not thinking of the death which at every moment rose before him, under every shape. Protected, as it were, by an invisible talisman, he had traversed the whole village and entered every hut the fire had spared, Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, having only one object—that of finding his child. Alas! His search had been in vain.
Doña Clara had disappeared: although Valentine had intrusted her to Shaw, no one knew what had become of her. The hacendero fell into his friend's arms, and burst into heartrending sobs.
"My daughter," he groaned. "Valentine, restore my daughter to me!"
The hunter pressed him to his manly breast.
"Courage, poor father," he said to him. "Courage!"
But the hacendero no longer heard him; grief had at length overpowered him, and he fainted away.
"Oh!" Valentine said, "Red Cedar, you viper, shall I never succeed in putting my heel on your chest!"